


The Swinging Pendulum of Grief

by lapsus_calami



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Scott McCall, Character Death, He's still part of the story though, Isaac Came Back, It's not happy but it's not sad, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Maybe the word I'm looking for is bittersweet, RIP Allison Argent, Sad Story, canon-divergent, mixed ending, or maybe it's just sad, post-season 3b, set is some unspecified future, with minor changes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-29
Updated: 2015-07-01
Packaged: 2018-04-01 19:45:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4032361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lapsus_calami/pseuds/lapsus_calami
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There really weren’t five stages of grief. Stages implied that they happened in order, that once a person made it through the stage they were done with it, and that once a person reached acceptance they were done grieving. As Stiles and any other person who’d lost someone could tell you, that simply was not the case.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Derek: Stage Two—Anger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey Everyone! 
> 
> So I started writing this at work during my last week and it kind of consumed me for a while. It was supposed to be much shorter but instead turned into a six chapter, at 13,000+ words semi-monstrosity that kind of tore my soul out because I write sad stories but not usually _sad_ stories so, yeah. 
> 
> Anyway, now that this is finished I will be returning to my regular program otherwise known as the No One Chooses This Life and updating Doe a Deer a Female Deer.  
> I need to come up with shorter titles. Or perhaps acronyms.

**T-Minus One Week**

“Everyone talks about the five stages of grief, right?” Stiles had said. They’d been walking through the Preserve looking for a good clearing for the cleansing ritual next week, and the sun had been shining, the air warm and heavy. Derek didn’t remember how they’d gotten on the subject—Kira had been talking about something from her psychology class before they left which had somehow led to talking about Lydia’s grief and loss class which had led to the different models of grieving—and Stiles hadn’t really stopped talking about it since he and Derek had left the house.

“The Kübler-Ross Model. I’m familiar with it,” Derek had interjected as he ducked under a branch and held it out of the way for Stiles who was too busy talking with his hands to keep it from smacking him in the face if Derek had let it go. It had been tempting, but he hadn’t done it.

“Exactly,” Stiles said snapping his fingers. “Five stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and, finally, acceptance. And everyone thinks of it like a linear thing, you know?”

Derek nodded as they approached a small stream crossing. He picked out the most stable rocks and hopped across with ease, turning once he made it to the opposite bank to offer Stiles a hand and watching as the human leapt onto each stone with absentminded accuracy and signature gracelessness.

“Like stage one,” Stiles said stepping onto the first stone, “then stage two.” He hopped lightly to the second stone only having to slightly correct his balance with flailing arms. One more stone and he’d be in reach of Derek’s hand. “Then stage three and so forth until they’re done wi—” Stiles grabbed Derek’s hand making the final jump to the bank, somehow managing to collide with Derek and letting out a startled huff of air as he effectively cut his own sentence off.

Derek smiled, fondly though he’d never admit it out loud, as he helped Stiles right himself. Stiles nodded in thanks and picked back up right where he’d left off.

“With it. Like once they hit stage five of acceptance everything is suddenly all okay and you’re done grieving. I mean, that’s bullshit,” he said as Derek inclined his head in tacit agreement. “Anyone who has actually been through a loss will tell you that. So I think of it more like a pendulum.”

Derek furrowed his eyebrows turning to look back at Stiles. “A pendulum?”

“Yes, a pendulum,” Stiles repeated coming to walk beside Derek rather than a few steps behind him. “Like this. The so-called stages are arranged in a U-fashion. Doesn’t really matter where but for the sake of simplicity we can keep them in order. So denial goes at the top of the U on the left, anger about half-way down, bargaining at the bottom, depression halfway up, and finally acceptance at the top right,” Stiles said drawing an imaginary large U in the air before them and pointing to where each stage would be as he spoke.

“Now we imagine a rock tied to a string swinging fluidly along that U. At any point it may pause at any of the different stages for any length of time. Maybe it starts at denial, swings to depression, back to anger, and _then_ makes it to acceptance. But even after it hits acceptance it still may swing back down to any of the other stages again. Maybe not denial or bargaining, but certainly anger or depression,” Stiles explained miming the swinging rock with one hand and pointing to specific sections of their imaginary U. “And that rock is you.”

“Wait, what?” Derek said stumbling to a halt and holding out a hand to stop Stiles.

Stiles glanced at the hand on his chest in confusion. “The rock represents you,” he said again, “as you travel through the stages, not necessarily in order and not necessarily just once.”

“No, I get that,” Derek said. “But before you said the rock represented the grieving person. Why are you specifying me now?”

Stiles’ features softened as the forest faded around them and he reached up to lay a cool hand along Derek’s cheek. “Oh Derek,” he said smiling faintly, almost sadly. “Aren’t you grieving?”

* * *

**One Week After**

Derek jerked awake at the angry pounding on the door, nearly falling off the couch. He cursed, scrubbing a hand over his face roughly and trying to orient himself after his abrupt awakening from his dream. It looked to be about midday and that was Scott steadily working on breaking down his door. Probably pissed Derek had blown off Pack Night last evening. Again.

“Derek, open up. I know you’re in there,” Scott called sounding equal parts irritated and exasperated.

Stiles arched an eyebrow at him from where he was leaning against the wall in the corner of the room. He was wearing is usual blue jeans and red hoodie, dark hair slightly disheveled like he’d been running his hands through it. “You gonna answer that or what?”

Derek sighed but padded over to the door anyway stretching on the way and scratching at the back of his head. His hair felt a little grimy; overall he could probably do with a shower. He pulled the door open just a crack squinting to peer out into the darkened hallway. “What do you want?” he growled as soon as he could see a bit of Scott’s face.

The other werewolf sighed like Derek was a personal disappointment to him, his shoulders physically drooping as he just seemed to sag down in exhaustion. “I thought we were past all the anger?” he asked tiredly.

Derek pulled the door open a bit more, giving Scott a serious once over and noting the worn expression and dark bags under the eyes. Hell, Scott didn’t look much better than Derek did probably. “We were,” he answered thinking back once again to Stiles’ pendulum explanation. “For a few days. Now we aren’t.”

Scott sighed again, heavier this time. “Look, can we just, can I just come in? Please?”

“Don’t be so rude, Derek. Let the poor guy in,” Stiles said.

Derek deliberated a moment, seriously contemplating slamming the door in Scott’s face before stepping back and finally letting the Alpha into the loft. Scott walked by him looking around in disgust at the mess of take out containers, broken glass, and overturned or broken furniture that had accumulated. He muttered something that sounded suspiciously like something about Stiles kicking Derek’s ass if he saw the state of the loft, but Derek chose to ignore it. He couldn’t really find it in himself to be bothered by the disarray that cluttered his loft at the moment. In fact he kind of felt he was entitled to it in a way. Just because Scott thought his anger was an unhealthy method of coping didn’t mean Derek was going to change.

“So what do you want?” he asked again making sure to keep a more cordial tone this time. Scott deserved that much at least.

Scott straightened a chair, sweeping glass off the cushion and taking a seat before answering. “That’s two Pack Nights you've missed. It’s important for the pack to be together right now,” he said. “And I know you like your privacy and you’re dealing with this in your own way and I respect that, I do, but we’re starting to get concerned here.”

“I’m not part of your pack,” Derek said kicking a few bottles out of the walkway. They clattered hollowly as they rolled across the floor before coming to a halt against the wall. “You don’t have to worry about me. I’m fine.” 

Scott stared at him stricken, eyes wide in a way Derek hadn’t seen in a long time. “What are you talking about? Of course you’re part of the pack,” he said.

“I’ve never bared my neck to you,” Derek argued and it was true. He’d never taken Scott as his Alpha. Not formally at least, and Scott had never asked him to.

Scott shrugged. “So? We run an unconventional pack,” he said easily. “You don’t have to. But, Derek, I’ve always considered you part of my pack.”

Derek grunted, turning away from the conversation and escaping to the kitchen. Scott, of course, followed him but there was a blessed few minutes of silence as Scott watched him scrounge up something that approximated a meager meal. Stiles wouldn’t be satisfied with what he was piecing together but Derek decided it would be sufficient.

“Is that what this is about?” Scott asked finally from where he was leaning against the doorjamb. Stiles stood next to him, leaning on the opposite side of the door and watching Derek with a blank face. “You think you’re somehow not welcome in the pack anymore now that—”

“No, Scott, that’s not what this is about,” Derek said avoiding Scott’s gaze and deciding he needed pickles. He grabbed a jar from the sparsely stocked fridge frowning when the lid seemed stuck as he tried to open it.

“Derek, I know he was your initial tie in but we still consider you pack. Even now. You don’t have to loose everyone because—”

“I said that wasn’t it, Scott!” Derek yelled slamming the stubborn jar of pickles that was refusing to open easily on the counter. Stiles sighed loudly as Scott jumped when it shattered, spattering pickle juice everywhere and sending more shards of glass to join those already on the floor. Derek just snarled, shaking glass and juice off his hand before plucking several pickles off the counter to place on his plate. “That’s not what this is about,” he snapped swiping the rest of the mess, as best he could, into the sink. 

“Then what?” Scott asked and he sounded fed up. Angry and weary. Derek huffed turning away from the Alpha. “Because you are shutting us out. I just don’t understand why. You’re not alone in this, Derek. Stiles wouldn’t want you—”

“It doesn’t matter what he wants, Scott!” Derek roared rounding on the other werewolf suddenly enough that Scott flinched back before his eyes flashed red and he straightened. “Don’t you get that! What he wants, what he…it doesn’t matter! It doesn’t matter anymore, and it’s our fault!”

“Derek,” Stiles said warningly, somewhere off to the side and nearly drowned out by Derek’s own yelling.

Scott’s expression, which had been moving toward something akin to quiet sympathy and understanding, shuttered closed. “Our fault?” he repeated incredulously. “How do you figure this is our fault!”

Derek snarled moving into Scott’s personal space. “He wouldn’t have been involved in all this if it weren’t for me!”

“Bullshit!” Scott exclaimed angrily. “You and I both know he was involved in this because of me. And if you really want to blame somebody try blaming _him_ because he was the reason we were in the woods that night. But you know what, Derek,” he said shoving the beta back roughly. “That doesn’t even matter because we both know he would have stumbled in on the supernatural at some point the way this town was headed! He would have figured it out at some point and got involved because that’s who he was!”

Derek shook his head shoving Scott away and ignoring the warning flash of red eyes. Stiles watched him sadly from the corner of the kitchen, a comforting presence at the corner of Derek’s vision. “We shouldn’t have let him,” Derek said. “I shouldn’t have let him get involved and stay involved! I should have made him go away to college like he’d planned to! I definitely shouldn’t have let him become a druid, and _you_ shouldn’t have accepted him as your emissary!”

Scott roared and despite never having accepted Scott as his alpha Derek still stumbled back fighting the urge to drop into full submission. Scott had him by the throat in the next second, the counter digging painfully into Derek’s lower back and glass grinding underneath their feet. “Don’t you do that,” Scott snarled. “He knew the risks when he made those decisions. He knew what he was doing. He knew why. Don’t belittle that. You know how much the pack meant to him, especially you. We were _honored_ to have him as our emissary.”

Scott shoved him away taking a few steps back and breathing harshly a moment before letting the shift fade away. “What happened wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t my fault. And it wasn’t his fault. You know whose fault it was? Those hunters. But we already took care of them, and you know what? It solved _nothing_. It helped _nothing_. So what else do you want to do about it? Blame me? Blame yourself? Blame him?” he asked holding Derek’s gaze for a moment, like he was expecting a challenge. “You’d better come to the next Pack Night,” he said finally when Derek said nothing and made no move. “Friday at seven. My house. We’re settling the funeral arrangements so be there.”

Then he was walking out of the kitchen. Derek tracked his footsteps across the loft and remained where he was until the loft door slammed shut. He could still hear Scott’s heartbeat, pumping hard and fast, as the other werewolf made his way down to his bike outside. The sound faded with the distance, lessening until the only sounds filling his ears was his own blood pumping and shallow breaths. He scrubbed his hands over his face roughly once more hating the shaky displaced feeling curling through his limbs and trying to force away the heat building behind his eyes.

Stiles stared at him, expression heartbroken and red tainted tears running down his face. “You’ll have to let go eventually,” he said.

Derek couldn’t see the plate clearly when he flung it at the wall adding food to the mess in his kitchen and the sound of the ceramic shattering on impact paled in comparison to the ringing in his ears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Follow me on tumblr


	2. The Sheriff: Stage Four—Depression

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There really weren’t five stages of grief. Stages implied that they happened in order, that once a person made it through the stage they were done with it, and that once a person reached acceptance they were done grieving. As Stiles and any other person who’d lost someone could tell you, that simply was not the case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you believe we still don't know the Sheriff's real name? Like seriously.
> 
> Anyway here is the second chapter. Not quite happy with it in its entirety...wish I could have gotten just a bit uh _sadder_ I suppose, but the Sheriff is a hard character for me to get a read on. Im quite pleased with parts of it though so Im nit going to poke and prod it any longer.
> 
>  
> 
> Also i apologize for mistypes in the notes...I've managed to burn the tips of most of my fingers so typing is fairly difficult and slow at the moment. ha. who's the biggest moron to ever moron? that's right. me. I'm the biggest moron to ever moron. thank god for spell check.

**T-Minus Three Weeks**

“I don’t know if I’m entirely comfortable with this,” John said watching his only son work more meticulously than he ever had on anything for high school. It was always with a strange sort of pride that John watched his son work with a single-minded focus, a feeling somewhere between overwhelming fondness and exasperated disbelief. Stiles could hyperfocus with the best of them and watching him apply that ability to anything was sort of astounding. But when Stiles did manage to simply focus, tongue jutting out intermittently and snippets of songs hummed and murmured to occupy whatever part of his brain wasn’t being actively used in his task, John couldn’t help but be reminded of Claudia.

Stiles glanced up at him from where he was measuring out herbs, swiping a particular amount off the board and into the bowl before replying. “You said the same thing when I told you I was going to be Scott’s emissary,” he said absently.

“Well I wasn’t comfortable about that either,” John pointed out. “And this whole situation you guys are in now is exactly _why_ I wasn’t comfortable with your decision.”

Stiles sighed dusting his hands off and plucking some vials out of the bag Deaton had given him. “I’ll be fine. It’s just a simple cleansing ritual, nothing to be worried about.”

“A cleansing ritual that’s going to be attended by seven other packs and some hunters. I think that’s cause for some concern,” John said. “Are you sure you can trust all of them?”

“Dad,” Stiles said setting the bowl aside carefully. “The hunters brought the knife to Madaline. Madaline brought it to Christine. And Christine referred her to Deaton who referred her to me. Exactly why would the hunters go through all that if they were after the Beacon Hills Pack?”

“Maybe they’re not after the Beacon Hills Pack. Maybe they’re just after a bunch of packs at once?”

“That’s just stupid,” Stiles countered. “What kind of hunter is going to attack nine emissaries and double that amount of werewolves?”

“Stupid hunters?” John tried.

“Dad, hunters might be stupid,” Stiles said sticking his tongue out between his teeth a little as he measure liquid from a blue vial. He set the vial aside, tipping the measured liquid into the bowl. “But they’re not _stupid_.”

“I know,” John said with a heavy sigh. “I’m just worried.”

Stiles grinned glancing over at his father quickly before returning to his measuring. Gold liquid this time. “Well, how about you try not worrying?” he asked cheekily dumping the gold liquid in the bowl and then walking around the table to grab a different book from the stack on the counter.

John huffed reaching out to snag Stiles wrist as he passed by pulling him down to sit in the chair next to John’s. Stiles frowned faintly, like John had somehow personally insulted his very existence before raising a single eyebrow in question. “I want you completely focused for this,” John said in explanation.

“For what?” Stiles asked puzzled. “Oh god this isn’t another talk on par in awkwardness with the birds and the bees talk is it? Because I’ve been scarred enough. Please, I’m only twenty-three, I deserve to live longer without this inflicted upon me.”

“Quiet, Stiles, this isn’t a sex talk or anything even approaching a sex talk, so just chill, all right?” John assured him. “I just want to make sure you understand that even though you’re all grown up, a fine young man, and an emissary for a werewolf pack, you’re still _my_ little boy. You’ll always be my little boy. So I’m never not going to worry about you, okay? And it might annoy you and it might seem like an overreaction, though with all the werewolves and witches and hunters I will never feel like any level of concern could be an overreaction, but you’ll just have to learn to deal with it because I’m not going to stop.”

Stiles stared at him a moment. “I think I preferred the birds and the bees talk.”

John groaned, dropping his head to his hands. “You are incapable of being serious. How did I raise you?”

Stiles laughed, loud and genuine. “With love and patience and unlimited amounts of forgiveness,” he said grinning widely. He let the smile fade, expression turning serious as he met John’s gaze evenly. “Dad, you can worry all you want, though the stress is not good for your health, but you’re stuck with me, okay? Because I’m with you ‘til the end of the line, pal.”

John sat back in his chair wondering when his little hyperactive terror of a child turned into this grown man in front of him. “You have to stop with the movie quotes, son.”

“Nonsense, father,” Stiles said clapping John on the shoulder as he stood to return to his work. “Pop culture references are the best and you, my good sir, got that one. I’m so proud of you, Captain.”

* * *

**Three Weeks After**

After Claudia died the world went silent and dark. John remembered existing in a haze, drifting through his life on autopilot and cheap liquor. Whenever someone spoke to him it was like listening underwater, muffled, gargled, and incomplete. Whenever John looked at something the colors were pale and the world was empty, devoid of everything that had made it worth anything. For a while that was all John saw in the world. Despair and pale imitations of a life he’d once craved and loved.

But then he’d found his way back. He’d found his way back through Stiles, his grieving hyperactive little bastard. The light of his life. Together he and Stiles both had found appreciation for the world again, had brought the color back into their lives bit by bit, brought back all the warmth and happiness that had been lost for some time.

And now here he was again. Right back in that pit of darkness. Of despair. Of anguish and pain. Of lost color and lost hope. And this time there was no light to guide him out.

“You know, I remember one time after Claudia…I remember you and Scott were out doin’ something stupid climbing in and around trees and you fell. They called me from the hospital and I remember my heart just stopped beating for a moment. And I thought, I just thought, _this hyperactive little brat of mine better not leave this world before I do because I can’t do it twice_. I couldn’t bury my wife and my child. And now I have. And I just keep thinking, over and over, what am I supposed to do now?”

John took another swig from the bottle of Jack, wincing a little as it burned going down his throat. He leaned his head back against the bed just looking around the room. He didn’t know why he kept looking around at everything. It wasn’t like it was going to change. Nothing was going to disappear or appear. Everything was exactly like Stiles had left it three weeks ago.

The bed was still unmade. There was an unfolded basket of laundry next to his dresser; John honestly didn’t know if it was full of clean clothes or dirty ones. Books were strewn across his desk and the floor; some closed and stacked, others open to pages with notebooks half full of Stiles’ half-legible chicken scratch he called penmanship. His laptop was closed on his desk, a white light pulsing on the front like a steady heartbeat. The room still felt lived in, but also empty. Like the essence that had given it life was missing.

“Oh, what am I doing, Stiles?” he mumbled lowering his head into his hands. It was a little awkward since he was still holding onto the bottle, the cool glass digging into his temple. “I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.”

The bottle was almost empty. It had been a long time since he’d drank this much, not since Claudia. Stiles had always put a limit on him and kept him motivated to stay away from the bottle. But since Stiles wasn’t here, John was free to indulge, right? He deserved that much, didn’t he?

“Why’d you have to do that, son? Why are you always putting yourself on the front line to get hurt?”

He sucked down another gulp, swirling the last quarter of the bottle at the bottom and regarding it morosely. There was a loud thud at the widow that made him jump, nearly dropping the bottle as he looked over to the window. It slid open and John spent a few seconds wondering if he should be worried before it registered that it was Isaac slipping through the window.

The werewolf landed lightly on the floor stumbling to a halt once he caught sight of John leaning up against the bed.

“Sheriff, sorry, I didn’t realize. I’m sorry, I should have. I’ll just go,” he stammered, straightening and turning back to the window.

“Wait,” John said. Isaac froze before facing John slowly. “You can stay,” he offered. “It…it’s still his room. I know he had an open invitation for all of you. That still stands.”

Isaac crossed the room timidly, hesitating for a moment before lowering down to sit next to John. They sat in silence for a long while before Isaac broke it by saying softly, “I still think sometimes if I come in here he’ll be here. Ready to rag on me for moping too much or interrogate me about why I’m still wearing a scarf in sixty degree weather.” He smiled wanly, mimicking one of Stiles’ many tirades, “Like, oh my god, Isaac, you’ve been back for over four years when are you going to ditch the woolen neck wrap?”

John nodded, taking another long pull on the bottle and setting it off to the side. “I keep coming home expecting him to be in the kitchen trying to cook something obnoxiously healthy or up here making a mess of his room with things only he can find any sense in.”

Isaac hummed in agreement looking around at the stacks of paper and books. “He did do that quite often.”

“I just can’t stop thinking of him when he was little. So rambunctious and always getting into things. A real pain in the ass sometimes. And, god, the why questions. He never stopped. Dad, why is the sky blue? Dad, why don’t penguins fly? Dad, why doesn’t the moon fall to the Earth? Dad, why, why, why,” John said to fill the silence and emptiness sitting in the room. It felt good to talk, like all the pain inside was being drained just a little, lessening the ache in his chest. “And even after his mother’s death. He was always so vibrant. Such a…a bright spot in my life.”

“Yeah,” Isaac said. “He really was, wasn’t he?”

“You know, the same thing happened after we lost Claudia. The world dulled down,” John mused reaching out and absently playing with the bottle as he spoke. “Stiles…he brought it all back for me. Now though I just don’t know…” He shook his head brining the bottle back to his lips for another drink. He sat the bottle down with a sigh scrubbing his hand over his face.

Isaac said nothing, simply bowing his head and plucking at the carpet.

“I knew I’d lose him soon. He was growing up. Hell, he was grown up. I knew that,” John said leaning his head back against Stiles bed. He took in a deep breath wishing he had the ability to draw in the scent of his son like the werewolves. “But it wasn’t supposed to be like this. Not this permanent. He deserved longer.” John fell silent for a long moment before asking, “Did you know Derek was going to ask Stiles to move in with him?”

Isaac looked up at that, eyes widened in surprise. “Really?”

John smiled wistfully at the thought of what could have been. “Yeah. He even came to ask my permission to do so. Of course, I told him it wasn’t my decision. It was Stiles’ and of course I knew Stiles would say yes. Boy was head over heels for Derek. They would have been…they would’ve…” He shook his head, shaking away thoughts of lost family holidays filled with laughter, good natured scolding on watching his diet, and maybe even grandchildren one day. Maybe. Forever a maybe now. The bottle was halfway to his mouth again before he felt another hand catch his, lightly pushing the bottle back down.

“They were good together,” Isaac said, gently squeezing John’s hand and slipping the bottle from his grasp the way Stiles used to.  

“That they were,” John said letting the bottle go. “That they were.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Follow me on tumblr


	3. Lydia: Stage Three—Bargaining

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There really weren’t five stages of grief. Stages implied that they happened in order, that once a person made it through the stage they were done with it, and that once a person reached acceptance they were done grieving. As Stiles and any other person who’d lost someone could tell you, that simply was not the case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's chapter three! Enjoy!

**T-Minus Two Weeks**

“Figured I’d find you here.”

Lydia jumped at the sudden voice, tilting her head back to see Stiles staring down at her with a soft grin on his face. She rolled her eyes but patted the grass beside her. Stiles followed her prompting folding his long body to sit cross-legged beside her. They sat in amicable silence for several long minutes just listening to the soft sounds of the chirping birds and rustling of leaves in the wind. Even now people always pegged Stiles as one who didn’t understand the value of silence, but Lydia knew that wasn’t always the case. Out of anyone, Stiles understood best the value of silence at times like these.

“It doesn’t feel like it’s been six years, you know?” Lydia said quietly rereading the words on the stone for what was probably the millionth time. _Allison Argent. 1997–2014. Nous protégeons ceux qui ne peuvent pas se protéger eux-mêmes._

“I know,” Stiles breathed, barely more than a whisper. “Sometimes it feels like it was ages ago and sometimes it feels like it was just yesterday.”

“And sometimes I sill expect to see her walking down the street,” Lydia finished.

Stiles just bobbed his head in agreement. “Mourning is weird like that.”

Lydia smiled sadly, “Yeah.” She reached out, shuffling forward a bit to brush her fingers over the cool stone, feeling the smoothness of the polished granite beneath her skin. “You know what else is weird? I still come here every year and try to listen. I talk to the dead all the time now but I still can’t hear her. And I don’t know what that means.”

Stiles cocked his head, nibbling thoughtfully at his thumbnail. “Maybe she’s not allowed to talk to you,” he said.

Lydia furrowed her brows, turning her head to look back at him skeptically. “Not allowed to talk to me?” she repeated. 

“Yeah, maybe there’s like ghost rules,” Stiles said wiggling his fingers in a way that was probably meant to represent the spirit world.

“That say you can’t talk to your best friend who happens to be a banshee?” Lydia said wondering not for the first time if there were some screws loose in her friend’s head.

“Hey,” Stiles defended. “You never know. World’s full of crazy shit.”

Lydia chuckled at that shaking her head and pushing back the strands of hair that fell loose at the motion. They lapsed into another comfortable silence, the stone growing warm under Lydia’s hand before she spoke again. “Have you ever tried?” she asked, glancing at Stiles from under her lashes.

Stiles looked between her and the stone before moving forward and placing his hand next to hers, index and pinky fingers pressed together. His skin was warm and Lydia could feel the heat radiating out from his palm into the stone as he furrowed his brows in concentration. After a long moment he shook his head and dropped his hand taking the warmth with him. “Nothing but silence,” he said and Lydia let out a soft sigh of disappointment. “Like usual,” Stiles added offering her a small grin.

Lydia huffed rolling her eyes but smiled all the same. “Of course you’ve tried,” she said. “Why’d I even ask? It’s probably the first thing you did when Deaton taught you how to do that.”

Stiles chuckled ducking his head. “Not the first,” he said glancing across the graveyard, “but definitely near the top.”

Lydia followed his gaze, looking out over the rows and rows of headstone toward the lone oak tree. “I tried her too,” she admitted. Stiles looked at her in surprise, mouth slightly open and eyes inquisitive. “I didn’t tell you at first because I didn’t want to give you hope,” she continued, “And I didn’t tell you after because I didn’t hear or feel anything. I wasn’t really surprised, I didn’t have any connection with her after all. I guess I just think it should be different with Allison.”

Stiles nodded understandingly. “You know,” he said picking some of the longer blades of grass from the ground and twining them together with ever fidgeting fingers, “some of the older texts talk about an in-between realm. A limbo, if you will, where spirits go after they die. And while you’re in this limbo you can still communicate with the living, but after you move on to what is after that, the spirit realm or whatever, it gets a lot harder to talk with the material realm,” he explained.

“So you think Allison has moved on?” Lydia said pulling a few of the longest blades of grass free from next to Allison’s headstone and returning to her seat next to him. She passed over the grass blades watching as he quickly began working the new grass into whatever he was making.

“I like to think so,” Stiles said. “I mean waiting for us at the pearly gates would totally be her style and all but it’d be kind of a long wait, hopefully, and I guess I just want whatever is best for her. Even if that means we’re separated for a while.”

Lydia nodded, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “So we have two theories. One, there’s some asinine rule that says no talking to your not dead friends, and two, Allison is in the spirit realm happily ever after.”

Stiles just grunted, bent nearly in half over his grass project.

“Promise me something, Stiles,” Lydia said.

“’Course, Lyds,” he said before she even finished, his words slightly muffled as he bit at the grass between his fingers.

“Promise me you won’t listen to a stupid rule or leave before talking to me.”

Stiles knocked his shoulder into hers, dropping his hands from his mouth and spitting grass off to the side. He made one last knot and enclosed the grass in his hand before meeting Lydia’s gaze. “I solemnly swear that if I die first I will haunt you ‘til the end of your days regardless of any stupid rule,” he said sincerely pulling one of her hands over his fist. He slowly uncurled his fingers and Lydia felt the press of the warm grass as Stiles guided their hands over and drew his away leaving his impromptu creation in her palm.

She smiled down at the slightly elongated figure eight delicately dragging a finger along its curves. “Infinity,” she said. “Very fitting.” 

Stiles grinned at her. “I thought so.”

She turned the grass weave over in her hands, admiring the varying shades of green twisted together. “You think you’ll be ready for next week?” she asked shifting subjects.

Stiles nodded clasping his hands together in his lap following her line of thinking easily. “As I’ll ever be. Why? You worried too?” he asked smirking.

Lydia swatted his shoulder with a huff and ignored his feigned groan of pain. “Don’t mock us, Stiles, what you’re doing is dangerous and we’re your pack. We have a right to worry.”

“I know,” he said. “But I’ve got this. We’ve got this. The other emissaries will be there. Deaton will be there. And the hunters. We’re preparing for nearly every contingency. I honestly do not understand why everyone is so worried about it. It’ll be fine.”  

Lydia leaned forward carefully placing the grass infinity at the base of Allison’s headstone. “I hope so,” she said. “I sure hope so.”

* * *

**Two Weeks After**

Lydia shook her head, dispelling the memory as she walked through the cemetery scanning the names on the stones even as she knew exactly where she was going. The graveyard was peaceful, soft rays of the evening sun bathing the area in a golden glow and the birds still chirping in the trees. She brushed her fingers along Allison’s headstone in greeting as she passed by, sending a silent apology for not visiting in the last couple weeks. Her destination today was further into the cemetery, back by the old oak tree where a small canopy was still set over several rows of folding chairs, having not yet been taken down from this morning.

She tapped her fingers briefly along Claudia’s headstone too as she rounded it glancing over the inscription before looking to the stone set beside Claudia’s. She hesitated only a moment before kneeling in front of it, the still soft and unsettled dirt sinking beneath her knees and immediately dampening her leggings.

“Okay,” she said her brushing her sweaty hands nervously along her jacket. “Here goes. You better be here, you jerk.” She took a deep breath and laid her hands on the stone. It was cold, slightly damp, and, most noticeably, silent.

Lydia pressed her palms against the stone harder. The harsh edges bit into her skin but she paid it little heed, simply squeezing her eyes shut and trying to filter out the sounds of nature surrounding her and focus in on the whisperings of the dead.

“Come on,” she muttered, digging her fingers into the stone. “Come on. Anything. I’ll take anything at this point. I really need to talk to you, Stiles. There has to be a way to fix this and if anyone could figure it out it would be you.”

She paused, barely daring to breathe in case she would miss the slightest hum of his voice on the air. Nothing. Nothing but resounding silence overlaid with birdsong and the quiet rustling of leaves in the wind.

“Stiles,” she said voice starting weak and growing stronger as she spoke. “Stiles, I don’t know if you can hear me, but I’ve tried everything I can think of to reach you. I need you to answer me. I need to know how to fix this. You shouldn’t be dead. Not you. You’re the one that would know what to do in this situation. I can bring you back. I know I can. I did it with Peter and I can do it with you. I just need to know what to do. I just need you to tell me what to do because I can’t find it myself. I’ve tried. I’ve tried so much.”

She paused hearing only the wind rustle and the birds sing.

“Come on, Stiles, don’t you leave me hanging. You promised, remember? You promised me.” The wind tousled her hair, disrupting the poised curls and whipping it about her shoulders. She leaned down resting her forehead against the stone. “Please, Stiles,” she whispered, “I can’t loose the both of you.”

She waited, listening to the chirps of the birds, the gentle wind, even the faint hum of the insects. But there were no whisperings, no sound of voices on the air, no answer to her pleas. She wiped at her eyes, careful to avoid smearing her make-up though it was probably a lost cause at this point and sat back on her heels. “You aren’t really going to leave me here alone with just Scott from the original four, are you?” she asked with a weak chuckle. “He’s hopeless without you. And Derek, God, Derek misses you so much, you know that? And Isaac, he’s been so quiet. More than usual. Kira and Liam miss you too, though Liam won’t admit it. And your dad, Stiles,” she paused shaking her head lightly. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a person so broken.”

Lydia took a deep breath hovering her palm just above the stone once more. “You once told me death didn’t happen to you, it happened to the people around you. To those left behind, standing at your funeral trying to figure out how they’re going to live the rest of their lives without you. And that’s exactly what’s happening now and we’re not doing so well. We need you, Stiles. Whatever it takes, whatever I need to do, I’ll do it. I just need you to talk to me.” She placed her palm down, feeling the cool stone beneath her fingers, and just praying, praying fiercely with every fiber of her being.

The silence that greeted her was never more deafening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> And as always feel free to follow me on tumblr


	4. Scott: Stage One—Denial

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There really weren’t five stages of grief. Stages implied that they happened in order, that once a person made it through the stage they were done with it, and that once a person reached acceptance they were done grieving. As Stiles and any other person who’d lost someone could tell you, that simply was not the case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay everyone, here is chapter four with Scott!
> 
> Enjoy!

  **T-Minus One Day**

“It’ll be fine, Scott. Stop being such a sourwolf.”

Scott scoffed, mock offended. “I'm not the sourwolf. I think you have me confused with the other wolf. You know the one that’s in love with you.”

Stiles’ smile faded a bit and he dropped his gaze back to the book he was working from with a quiet snort.

“What?” Scott asked perplexed at the sudden shift of mood from lighthearted teasing to the solemnness exuding from Stiles now.

“Derek’s not in love with me,” Stiles said clearing sticks and leaves away from the ground as he began to draw out the ritual’s symbols.

Scott frowned. Derek and Stiles certainly weren’t the typical couple in how they managed their relationship, but he would have never thought it went as far as Stiles thinking the other man didn’t love him. “What makes you say that? Stiles, Derek is crazy about you. Anyone could tell.”

“Scott, we’ve been dating for over three years. And he’s never once said he loves me or wants more than what we have right now,” Stiles said and his tone was mild, almost disinterested as he worked. “We have separate residences, completely separate finances, half-separate private lives practically, and probably separate futures as far as he’s concerned,” he muttered leaning down to squint at the fine print footnote at the bottom of the page before continuing with laying out the circle.

“Well, Derek is…emotionally stunted,” Scott said as Stiles moved around him. “Like you’ve said on numerous occasions. He’s not good with using his words. I mean, come on, in the past three years hasn’t he _shown_ you that he loves you?”

Stiles glanced up at him making a vague gesture towards the bare branches of the trees arching over them. “Didn’t you just hear the above list of the separateness in our lives? You don’t actually think all that is by my choice do you? I mean yeah, separateness has its perks, but if I’m in for the long hall some sort of consolidation is in order.”

“Well, have you talked to him at all about it?” Scott asked.

Stiles snorted. “You said it yourself. Dude’s not good with his words.”

“So that’s a no, then. I’m kind of shocked. Never known you to actually not talk about what’s bothering you. I mean not lately anyway,” Scott said.

Stiles sighed heavily, sitting back on his heels and wiping a hand across his forehead that left a smudge of dirt behind. “Look, I guess it just…I don’t want to push him away, okay? Or have him push _me_ away. He’s not had the best of luck romantically, you know? And I think he just doesn’t want to go there again. And I’m okay with that.”

“Are you really though?” Scott asked.

Stiles rolled his eyes focusing back on the deep lines he was etching in the dirt. “If I have to be, yes. Derek’s been dealt a shit hand in life, I’m not going make it harder on him by telling him I want more than he’s willing to give.”

“We’ve all been dealt shit hands at times,” Scott said seriously. “Stiles, you deserve to be happy.”

Stiles glanced up at him, a small smile tugging on the corners of his lips. “I already am, Scotty. I already am.”

* * *

  **One Day After**

“Scott? Sweetheart?”

The door opened a crack and Scott heard his mom sigh in something that wasn’t quite surprise or relief but a mixture of both. He didn’t reply. Didn’t even move from his position on the bed.

_Stiles, you deserve to be happy._

“Scott?” his mom called softly, opening the door even further. It let in a stream of light from the hallway that fell directly onto his eyes and made him squint. Scott debated moving for a moment before ultimately deciding it didn’t matter and just letting his eyes water a bit from the brightness as his mom slipped into the room.

She crossed the room slowly, coming to a halt next to his bed before sitting down. Scott stayed where he was, face pressed into slightly stale smelling sheets. His mom sat quietly for some time, simply running her hand through Scott’s hair gently, before saying, “Kira called looking for you. She thought you might have come here. You know you could have just knocked and said hello. Actually you didn’t even have to knock, could have just used the door. You didn’t need to sneak into your old bedroom through the window.”

She paused as if waiting to see if Scott would respond, sighing when he remained silent and running her fingers through his hair again. “Kira sounded very worried, honey. Why didn’t you tell her you were coming here?”

“I didn’t know I was coming here,” he whispered finally curling more in on himself. His mom’s hand stilled a moment before continuing her stroking. She hummed thoughtfully but didn’t comment; Scott wondered if she knew where he’d gone first. If she knew he’d gone to Stiles’ room but had to leave almost immediately because the emptiness had been overwhelming. How he thought that if he just left and came here and laid very still, he could pretend that emptiness wasn’t real.

_We’ve all been dealt shit hands at times._

“Well you’re lucky she called me before I left then,” she said after a minute. “We all would have been frantic looking for you.”

“Sorry,” he murmured.

His mom sighed, hand halting once more as she shook her head slowly. “Don’t apologize, Scott,” she said softly. “There’s nothing you need to apologize for.”

Scott sucked in a shuddering breath, all the thoughts he’d carefully been keeping from running rampant through his mind in the darkness of his old room beginning to break through now that his mother was with him. He felt his mom lean closer in concern, moving her hand from his hair to rub soothingly at his shoulder while he reached up to clutch desperately at her sweater. “They keep looking at me,” he said haltingly. “They just keep looking at me like I can fix it. Like I can make it better again. And I don’t know what to do, Mom. I had to leave. I had to because they just keep looking at me and I _can’t_ fix this.”

“Scott, I want you to listen to me,” his mom whispered fiercely leaning over him like a shield against the world and speaking softly into his ear. “There’s no fixing what happened and I am so sorry for that. Your pack is looking at you because you are their alpha, and they’ve just lost their pack member. Derek told me once that’s like loosing a limb. They’re looking at you because they need you to be strong. They need you to hold them together through this.”

Scott whimpered, clutching at his mother in a way he hadn’t in years and wishing he could just stay here in this room forever and not face the reality that lay beyond it. He didn’t know if he was strong enough to do this, to keep his pack together after something like this. Not without—not by himself.

“But you lost him too, sweetheart,” his mom whispered hugging him closer. “So right now you do whatever you have to do. Cry, yell, sit in silence, whatever you need, you do it right now, and I’ll be here to help you pull it all back together so that when you walk through that door you’re ready to be strong for your pack, okay? In this room you’re not an alpha, you’re just my son and you lost your best friend. It’s okay to grieve.” 

Scott did cry, long and hard and held by his mother in a way that he hadn’t been since he was a child. He yelled too; angrily, wretchedly, and seemingly every emotion in-between. Stormed around the room in a whirlwind of rage flinging books, papers, and in one instance a small wrought iron wolf figurine Stiles had gotten him a few years ago and Scott had forgotten he even had. That one left a significant hole in the wall. All the while his mom sat wordlessly on the bed until he screamed himself hoarse and back into tears again.

It could have been minutes or hours later that he was once again lying on the bed. Silently now; simply watching the red numbers of the old alarm clock tick by slowly and listening to the comfortingly steady beat of his mother’s heart.

“I’m mad at him,” he admitted quietly, ashamed somewhat that one of the prevailing feelings within him right now was anger at the one person he felt he shouldn’t be at all angry at. “I’m mad that he left me to deal with this by myself. That he left me alone like this. He was the one that was always supposed to be there. And then he went got himself—” he cut the sentence off, unable to finish and knowing his mother would understand perfectly anyway.

_You deserve to be happy._

“Oh, sweetheart,” she said smoothing his hair with a patient sigh. “Do you really think Stiles knew what was going to happen? He didn’t know. What he did, it was to protect the pack.”

“But we don’t even know why,” Scott said angrily wiping hard at his eyes as he pushed himself into a sitting position. “That’s the most fucked up thing about this. My best friend is dead and I don't even know _why_. All I know is it has something to do with that stupid knife.”

“Honey, look at me,” Melissa said jostling Scott’s shoulder a bit. “Look at me.” She waited until Scott met her gaze before offering him a small smile. “Do you trust Stiles?”

Scott frowned, drawing his brows together. “Of course. Why would—”

“Do you trust Stiles as your emissary?”

“Mom, I don’t understand why—”

“Just answer the question.”

“Yes,” Scott said openly. “Yes. I trust Stiles as my emissary. Implicitly.”

Melissa smiled reaching out to grip Scott’s hand. “Then trust that everything he did, he did for the good of the pack. We don't know what he saw when he was anchoring for that knife or why he did what he did after and we might never know. But you need to trust that he wasn’t acting recklessly or impulsively. He was acting on knowledge that we didn’t and may never have.”

Scott sighed, dropping his head to his hands and staring at his rumpled blankets. “But how am I supposed to stop…how am I supposed to...supposed to…”

Melissa ran her hands over his shoulders soothingly. “You learn to accept that you may never get the answers you’re looking for, and you find another kind of closure.”

_I already am, Scotty. I already am._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Follow me on [tumblr](http://www.lapsuscalamiwriting.tumblr.com)


	5. The Pack: Stage Zero—The Loss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There really weren’t five stages of grief. Stages implied that they happened in order, that once a person made it through the stage they were done with it, and that once a person reached acceptance they were done grieving. As Stiles and any other person who’d lost someone could tell you, that simply was not the case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the next chapter. Enjoy...or you know whatever one does with a sad chapter.

 

**T-Minus Zero**

The cleansing ritual went beautifully. It was still so surreal to watch Stiles interact with his magic. To see him pull it into being and link with the other emissaries had been nothing short of breathtaking. Afterwards the other emissaries smiled and exchanged hugs, congratulating each other and Stiles on their work. But something with Stiles was off.

Scott noticed it as soon as the ritual closed. The shift in Stiles’ heartbeat and scent. He tried to catch Stiles’ gaze, ask without asking what was wrong, but Stiles was focused on the hunters, keeping the knife in hand even as he bid the other emissaries farewell.

Stiles waited until each of the other emissaries had left before approaching the hunters. The pack gathered around him, Scott by his side. At this point each of them could tell something was wrong. Scott could see it in Derek’s tense posture, Isaac’s clenched fists, and Kira’s hand open and ready to grab her sword at a moment’s notice. Only Deaton seemed unaffected, but Scott knew he too was preparing.

“That was quite a sight to see, Mr. Stilinski,” Marcus said stepping forward and speaking first. “Thank you for your good work.” He put his hand out expectantly.

Stiles held the dagger up, flipping it around to hold the blade like he was going to hand it over. Scott could sense the hunters’ apprehension; the slight upticks in their heartbeats, the stench of nervous sweat, and the several gazes all trained unerringly on the knife in Stiles’ hand. They wanted it returned something awful. Stiles hesitated, shaking his head a bit, and drew the knife back.

“I think I’ll hold on to this,” he said.

Marcus sighed, dropping his hand. The few other hunters with him stiffened. “And why would you do that?” he asked although Scott suspected he already knew the answer.

“You lied to me,” Stiles said. Scott jerked a little at that, felt Derek jolt beside him. Because he and Derek had been the ones to verify the hunters’ story and it had been sound. “You lied to us. I don’t know how, or maybe you really didn’t know the truth about this knife, but I can’t give it back. So I think it would be best if you just left. The knife has been cleansed. The souls are at rest. And you need to leave Hale Territory.”

Marcus sighed again, wiping a hand along his mouth. “You should have just given the knife back, kid,” he said and Scott didn’t stop the growl that rumbled up from his chest. Marcus said it casually, easily, but the underlying threat was clear. The rest of the pack moved closer, gathering around Stiles in a protective half circle.

“No,” Stiles said. “You need to leave.”

Marcus stared at Stiles for a long moment, challenging, like he was assessing the situation. Making a determination about the odds of success and the odds of being torn apart. Scott let another low growl out making it clear he would not be accepting of anything less than the hunters doing exactly as Stiles said. “Fine, we’ll go,” Marcus said raising his hands in surrender. “We’ll leave.”

“You have until sundown to leave the territory,” Stiles said and he sounded calm but his heart was racing. Scott shifted closer, pressing his shoulder to Stiles’ and pulling himself up to his full height as he glared at the hunters. Derek mimicked him on Stiles’ other side.

Marcus stared at them then snorted waving a hand dismissively. “All right, men, you heard the kid. We until sundown to clear out.”

Stiles relaxed minutely, imperceptibly to the humans but Scott could see the drop in his shoulders and hear the decline of his heartbeat. Scott just caught the sidelong look one of the other hunters gave Marcus. It was the only warning they got. Marcus spun back around, pulling a small handgun from beneath his jacket, the other hunters moving around him.

The report of the gunshot rang jarringly in Scott’s ears even as he launched forward.

And the echoing wail of a banshee followed.

* * *

The blood was tacky on Scott’s hands. Itchy where it was drying and sticky where it had pooled or gathered in his palms and between his fingers. A deafening hum was sounding in his ears, like a high frequency ringing drowning out all other sounds. Drowning out the screaming and the crying like it was trying to protect him somehow from reality.

“Scott!”

Someone was shouting his name. Had been for a while judging by the shrill intensity behind the word.

“Scott!”

Scott blinked, dragging his eyes away from his hands to look at the torn and shredded bodies of the hunters strewn around the clearing. The ground was dark and stained with blood, most of the hunters mangled beyond recognition.

Kira was shouting at him. He felt her hand on his arm, shaking it lightly as he refocused on her. Her face was splattered with blood, smeared with dirt, and streaked with tears. “Scott.”

Isaac was crying too, standing off back from the massacre and almost covered in as much blood as Scott. He seemed uncaring of the blood still sluggishly dripping off his fingertips. Deaton was off to the other side, nearer to Derek, with his head bowed and looking pristine and untouched.

Everyone but Kira was staring over at Derek. Scott looked back to Kira willing her to tell him it was all a dream, some bizarre nightmare. Willing her calls to wake him up rather than drag him back to this reality.

There was something, an odd expression, in her eyes. Anguish, yes, but also a touch a fear. For him or perhaps at him. And that was like being doused in cold water. The sounds of the world came rushing back with a sharp snap. Intermittent buzzing of phones on vibrate; he could feel his own going off in his pocket. Kira’s thundering heartbeat and hitched breaths. Isaac’s soft keening and Deaton’s quiet murmurings, a prayer of some sort perhaps. Derek’s quiet whimpers. Five heartbeats when there should be six.

He covered her hand on his arm with his own, giving hers a reassuring squeeze before pulling away. She let him go, trailing behind him as he crossed over to beside Deaton swallowing hard before dropping to his knees across from Derek.

“Derek,” he said hoarsely. “Derek,” he repeated as the older man refused to acknowledge him and instead curled tighter around—Derek didn’t look up. “Derek, look at me,” Scott said pouring every ounce of conviction he could muster into the words. The beta finally looked up at him and the expression on Derek’s face shook his soul. Eyes wider than he’d ever seen them before and so open the grief was almost tangible underneath the look that plainly said _tell me I’m dreaming, Scott, please tell me this isn’t real._

Shock, Scott distantly noted. That was the look on Derek’s face. On everyone’s face. Shock. That was the feeling coursing through him right now.

“We were in the woods,” he said staring at Derek unable to look down, unable to look at—he could feel the tears slipping down his cheeks, watched as matching ones fell over Derek’s. “We were in the woods. We were just going for a hike.”

Derek’s expression crumbled more as he realized what Scott was doing. He broke away from Scott’s gaze, dropping his head down to hide his face against—Scott closed his eyes. He felt a strong hand grip his shoulder, glancing up to see Deaton’s sorrowful countenance above him. “We stumbled across a group of hunters,” he continued. “They told us the woods weren’t safe. That they’d been tracking a wild animal, we don’t remember what exactly.”

Kira was crying harder now, both her and Isaac having moved closer as Scott was talking. Derek’s shoulders began shaking though Scott could no longer see the older werewolf’s face, his choked sobs audible.

Scott licked his lips, gaze darting to meet Isaac’s before saying the next part. “It happened so fast.” Isaac squeezed his eyes shut with a strangled gasp. “It happened so fast,” Scott repeated still staring steadfastly at Isaac. “The wild animal came out of nowhere. We didn’t get a good look at it. It attacked us. The hunters were shooting. We were trying to get away. In all the commotion…” Scott stopped, words getting stuck in his throat. Deaton squeezed his shoulder gently. Derek cried harder hugging—Scott sucked in a shaky breath.

“It just happened so fast,” Isaac whispered.

Scott nodded, uncaring of the tears streaming down his face or the cracks in his voice. “In all the commotion Stiles…Stiles was…he was hit in the crossfire. The animal got away. We don’t know where it went. We called the Sheriff first…”

It just happened so fast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I may have maybe written a sort of epilogue? But I don't know if I should include it? What do you all think; there's still one more chapter to go but would you all like an epilogue? 
> 
> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> You can follow me on tumblr [here](http://www.lapsuscalamiwriting.tumblr.com)


	6. Scott: Stage Five—Acceptance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There really weren’t five stages of grief. Stages implied that they happened in order, that once a person made it through the stage they were done with it, and that once a person reached acceptance they were done grieving. As Stiles and any other person who’d lost someone could tell you, that simply was not the case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, soooo...I fleshed out this chapter. A lot. Originally it had both Scott and Derek, but it got seriously long so I decided to divide them. Which means there will of course be another chapter following this one and then, maybe, an epilogue. I still have not decided if I want to include it or not. 
> 
> Enjoy!

**T-Minus One Year**

“Did you ever think we wouldn’t make it?” Stiles asked.

They were lying on their backs in yard of the Hale House. The grass was damp with dew and the air was chilly enough that Scott could feel Stiles’ intermittent shivers. Scott didn’t really know why they were here of all places, but when Stiles had shown up in his driveway obnoxiously honking his horn and shouting, “Get in, loser, we’re celebrating,” Scott hadn’t questioned him. He learned in these last few years when to question Stiles and when to just go along with him. Although, here he was hours later and he still wasn’t quite sure what they were celebrating. The only thing important he could think of was happening tomorrow so celebration now would be a little preemptive. But, then again, this was Stiles.

“Like legitimately think so?” Stiles continued. “Not just in the heat of the moment or something.”

“Have you?” Scott asked because he kind of didn’t understand the question, which was not unusual when it came to Stiles’ questions, but also because he wanted Stiles to answer first. It was a useful tactic to have Stiles answer his own questions before Scott even attempted.

Stiles hummed thoughtfully wiggling a little like he needed to move in order to think. Scott grinned shaking his head in fondness and staring up at the stars stretched across the clear sky above them. Off to his right the waxing moon was just beginning to peak over the tree line bathing the yard in a soft glow.

“I guess so,” Stiles said finally. “I mean. I’ve thought of it. But I think of everything, you know?”

Scott nodded grin widening. “Yes, you do.”

“But there are days when I wake up now and I’m _surprised_ , you know?” Stiles said. He sounded a little confused by that fact and a little awed. Scott understood what he meant by it though. “I mean, we’re twenty-two, dude. I’ve been _legally_ drinking for the past year, you have your own freaking house, Lydia’s already set to graduate from grad school next year, Kira’s got a goddamn countdown on when she thinks you’ll propose, don’t tell her I told you that, Isaac’s got his bachelor’s in social work of all things, Liam is a sophomore at UCLA, and Derek’s in a long term relationship with yours truly _and_ has a legitimate job with my _dad_. If you’d asked me, like, five years ago if any of that was gonna happen I’d have laughed my ass off and referred you to a shrink. Number one, I thought half of us would be dead by now including me. Don’t get me wrong, I’m thrilled to be alive, I really am, it was just statistically likely at that point. And, here’s number two, with all that supernatural shit that went down I honestly thought we’d never make it to having to be like _actual_ adults, you know?” he asked turning his head to stare at Scott rather than the sky.

Scott stayed quiet for a moment, watching Stiles fidget and the minute flutter of expressions that flowed over his best friend’s face with each second then, “Five years worth of accomplishments and the best one you could come up with for yourself was legally drinking?”

Stiles rolled his eyes hard, flinging a hand over his face like Scott was the epitome of disappointment. “Oh my god!” he cried while Scott laughed. “All that deep and philosophical monologuing and you picked _that_ to focus on?”

“Well I can think of many other accomplishments you've had and all of them are more impressive than something you’ve been doing since the start of high school,” Scott said. “And all of them are way better than drinking too.”

Stiles hummed thoughtfully looking back to the stars. “Really? I think my ability to legally imbibe alcohol and the fact that I can actually still _get_ drunk, unlike some people I know, makes it one of my shining features.”

“It’s definitely up there on the list,” Scott said, “but I dunno, man, I think you’re selling yourself a bit short.”

“Okay,” Stiles said. “What does _your_ list of unlikely events you never thought would happen but they did look like?”

Scott furrowed his brows thoughtfully and glancing over at the moon shining brightly in the dark sky. “Derek is part of my pack and actually smiles, Isaac is seriously contemplating adopting a child, don’t tell him I told _you_ that, Lydia is coming back to Beacon Hills instead of staying in Boston, Liam actually listens to me on occasion, Kira’s a star lacrosse player, not that I ever really doubted her even once but still, _I_ have a ring in my bottom left sock drawer, and tomorrow _you’ll_ officially be my emissary,” he said smiling at Stiles’ profile which had been contorting into the most entertaining grimaces the entire time he’d been talking.

“Oh my gawd, Scotty, you’re such a sap!” Stiles said reaching over to smack Scott on the chest. Or at least he was probably aiming for Scott’s chest. He kind of missed, hitting Scott somewhere between his ribs and stomach. “Why am I friends with you?”

Scott laughed, puffs of warmth dissipating in the cold air. “Because without me you’d be dead?” he said.

Stiles snorted. “Ha. How about because without lil’ ole me _you’d_ be dead?” he retorted. “Seriously I should have kept a running tally on how many times I saved your werewolf ass. It’d be pretty impressive by now I’m sure. I could make it a PowerPoint presentation. With pie charts and bar graphs. Title it: The Amazing Heroism of Stiles and Co. and the Almost-Deaths of Scott McCall. Featuring the idiocy of Derek Hale and the intellect of Lydia Martin. It’d be awesome. I’d win prizes.”

“You’re an ass,” Scott said, but he was laughing with Stiles hard enough that they eventually dissolved into senseless and near hysterical giggling. “I thought that was why we were here actually,” he admitted after they’d calmed down some. Stiles quirked an eyebrow at him. “The emissary ceremony tomorrow. I thought that’s what we were celebrating.”

Stiles shook his head sighing in shame. “Dude, we can’t celebrate that early. And not without the rest of the pack, you idiot.”

“Okay, so then what are we celebrating?” Scott asked.

Stiles pretended to be hurt, cupping a hand over his heart and giving Scott the most dramatic puppy dog eyes he could muster. “Oh, Scotty, don’t tell me you forgot our anniversary? You wound me.”

Scott laughed, nudging Stiles with his elbow. “I’m serious, man. What are we doing out here?”

“Well, Scotty,” Stiles said mock serious. “I’ll have you know that today is the same day six years ago that I hopped over to your front porch to drag you out into these very woods to look for a dead body.”

“Wow. Really?” Scott asked turning to look Stiles in the eye. It was crazy to think it’d been that long since the night he’d gotten bit in the woods.

Stiles nodded smiling a little. “Yeah, dude, and now look at us. For some kids I didn’t think would make it outta high school we’ve come pretty far,” he said.

“Yeah,” Scott echoed settling back down to stare at the endless expanse of sky above them. “We made it.”

Stiles giggled again trying and failing to muffle it with a hand over his mouth.

“What are you laughin’ at now?” Scott asked, nudging his friend with his shoulder.

Stiles looked over at him, eyes bright and a wide grin stretched across his face. “We did it. We did it,” he whispered. 

“Yeah,” Scott said smiling back. “We did it.”

Stiles smirked raising a single eyebrow. “Hooray.”  

* * *

  **One Month After**

“Scott? You still in here?”

Scott stared at himself in the mirror trying to note any changes from the last few weeks. Something that would show, just by looking at him, that he was an alpha without an emissary now, a man without his best friend, a man without his brother.

But it was just him. Same as always. Just dressed a little sharper and looking a little wearier. Stiles would be harping on him for the bags under his eyes and probably calling Lydia in with her make-up to cover them up. _This is important, Scotty,_ he’d say. _Gotta look your best._

“There you are.”

“Hey,” Scott said turning around quickly as he caught sight of Kira in the mirror behind him. She was dressed sharper than usual as well in a plain black dress and matching shrug with her hair pulled back from her face.

Kira offered him a small smile. “The car’s outside whenever you’re ready,” she said, “the service starts in thirty minutes.”

“I’m ready now,” Scott said reaching out to entwine his fingers with hers. “Everyone else already there?”

“Pretty much,” Kira said. “Everything’s set. We just have to pick up Isaac and arrive.”

Scott nodded pulling her in for a hug and burying his nose in her hair to draw in her comforting scent. “God, I can’t believe it’s been a month,” he whispered. Kira hummed in agreement winding her arms around his waist and resting her head against his shoulder.

“Me either. I can’t believe we’re having a memorial service already.”

Scott sighed nodding. “It’s tradition apparently. Deaton said a lot of the other packs are expecting one so they can come pay their respects.”

Kira stepped back sliding her hand down to entwine their fingers. “And I can’t believe we’re so…” she waved her free hand as if searching for the right word.

“Established?” Scott suggested.

“Yes,” Kira said. “I can’t believe we’re so established now as a pack that other packs are actually interested in our happenings.”

“Well after six years give or take of hard work we ought to be,” Scott said. “Stiles spent a lot of time cultivating relations with other packs and their emissaries. We shouldn’t be surprised so many were inquiring about a memorial service.”

“I suppose not,” Kira replied. “You ready for this?”

Scott sighed giving Kira’s hand a gentle squeeze and relaxing at the squeeze he received in turn. “As I’ll ever be. Let’s go.”

Kira drove them, giving Scott plenty of time to think as they stopped by Isaac’s apartment to pick up the other werewolf before heading over to the Sheriff’s house. Isaac was silent aside from the greeting he gave them as he first got in the car. Scott could still sense the quiet grief radiating from the blonde and was actually a bit surprised Isaac had needed a ride at all given how much time he’d taken to spending with the Sheriff in the past few weeks.

They weren’t the last to arrive, but a good number of people were already at the house by the time Kira parked and they made their way up to the front door ten minutes before the service was set to begin. Isaac entered without knocking and held the door for Kira and Scott before closing it gently. The house wasn’t noisy per se, though there was quite a few conversations going on by stragglers who had yet to head out back, but it lacked the suffocating silence that had made it feel so empty the last few times Scott had brought himself to stop by.

“Hey,” Scott said laying a hand on Isaac’s arm to get his attention before he wandered off. “Do you know if Derek’s coming? I left him a few messages but he hasn’t been returning my calls.”

Other than a few terse text messages, Scott hadn’t spoken with Derek since the other man had skipped the Pack Nights and then proceeded to not show up at the funeral. That particular choice had rubbed quite a few of the pack the wrong way, and Scott had been sure to defend Derek’s decision though he was more than slightly angry about it himself at the time. Now though, Scott just hoped Derek would join them for even just an hour or so; some company and human interaction would do him good. Scott knew none of the others had talked at length with Derek since the funeral either, but if anyone had gotten a response from Derek it would be Isaac.

Isaac shook his head slowly. “I don’t think so,” he said. “I told him the details but he didn’t say he was coming.”

Scott sighed; that was as good as a flat refusal. “Okay. Maybe he’ll turn up then,” he said optimistically not missing the way Isaac subtly shook his head again clearly not buying Scott’s positivity.

“Stiles would have dragged him by his ear,” he remarked before smiling wanly. “But if we had Stiles to drag him by his ear then he wouldn’t need dragging. Funny how that works, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Scott agreed. A lot of the issues they’d had the past few weeks would be solved if Stiles was here. Everything would be solved and that was the whole point. None of this would have happened otherwise.

Isaac patted Scott on the shoulder. “I’m going to find the Sheriff,” he said.

Scott nodded and returned the gesture, squeezing Isaac’s shoulder fondly and pressing his hand briefly to the bare skin of Isaac’s neck before moving away. It took him a moment to locate Kira, but he eventually found her in the kitchen getting a drink with Lydia and picking at some of the assorted appetizers.

“Scott,” Lydia said upon spotting him. “There’s my alpha.” She gave him a brief hug, stretching to brush her lips briefly across his cheek before stepping back. She looked good—still a little worn, still a little bleak, still with a shadow of grief clinging to her—but getting better. She was smiling again and the glint in her eyes was back; the shadow of grief that followed her, the same one that followed Scott, wouldn’t be going anywhere, but she was beginning to shine again. “How are you doing?” Lydia asked

“I’m doin’ good,” he said. “You?”

Lydia chuckled. “Better,” she said handing Scott a glass of punch without asking. “You ready to do this speech and then rounds?”

Scott furrowed his brows in confusion. He was prepared for the speech. “Rounds?” he repeated.

“Yes, Scott, rounds,” Lydia said. “As the alpha you have to go around after all the speeches and let everyone tell you how damn sorry they are. I have elected to come with you. Be happy about that.”

“But,” Scott started to protest looking helplessly at Kira who was stepping back from the situation and gesturing that Lydia had full reins.

“Sorry, sweetie, perks of your job.”

Scott sighed taking a long gulp from his cup and kind of wishing they were sixteen and the punch was spiked again. “But I’m just a vet,” he grumbled. “My perks are petting fluffy animals and getting peed on.”

Kira laughed swooping in to give him a peck on the lips before stepping back and patting his cheek. “You’re other job,” she said. “Now I’m gonna go find the Sheriff.”

“You and everyone else,” Scott muttered. “Say hi for me. Though I suppose we’ll get to him eventually.” Lydia just nodded approvingly as Kira kissed his cheek and left the room.

“You really want to do rounds with me?” he asked her dubiously. Accompanying him when talking to other packs had always been Stiles’ role, even before he was Scott’s emissary.

Lydia snorted setting her cup aside on the counter and pushing her hair back over her shoulders. “Hell no, but I figured someone intelligent should go with you.”

“I can handle them alone,” Scott said seriously. “Or Kira could accompany me.”

“Kira’s too sweet to subject to some of these people,” Lydia said quickly waving her hand as if to brush the idea away. “And besides I thought that perhaps I might, uh, step up and fill some of the…gaps. You need someone doing some of these things,” she said picking distractedly at a nail and avoiding Scott’s gaze. “Just for a while, not permanently. Just…just until we find someone else.”

Scott smiled, even as the words caused a pang in his chest as he thought, however briefly, of searching for a new emissary. “I think that’s a great idea.” Lydia looked up finally, smiling faintly. “You ready to find the rest of our pack?” Scott asked turning to offer Lydia his arm.

Lydia sighed rolling her eyes before taking his arm and flashing a sharp grin at him. “Of course.”

They located the rest of their pack in the main room. His mother gave him a tight hug before passing him off to the Sheriff. Scott was pleased to pick up only the faintest hint of alcohol clinging to the man and sent a grateful smile to Isaac whom he suspected was the one to thank for that fact. “How are you doing, Sheriff?” he asked softly giving the man one last squeeze before stepping back.

The man sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face before replying. “Been better,” he said, “but I’ve been worse too so I think I’m doing okay.”

“He’s got enough food to feed the pack for a few months now,” Melissa said linking her arm back through John’s and rubbing his arm supportively. “Everyone’s going to have to take some home with them.”

“Well I think we can manage that,” Kira said coming up beside Scott. “Just send half of it with Liam. I’m sure he and Mason could use it, starving college students and all.”

“Hey,” Liam said defensively while Mason simply nodded resignedly. “We do perfectly fine on our own.”

“Speak for yourself,” Mason muttered still perfectly audible to any of those with werewolf hearing. “You’re the one stealing all _my_ food half the time.”

“It’s not _your_ food! We go shopping together!”

“It is my food when I buy it,” Mason said.

Liam huffed. “We take turns buying, moron.”

“Maybe we should just give them all of it,” John said with a chuckle. “And they can attempt to split it evenly.

“Not all of it,” Melissa said. “But a good bit of it perhaps.”

Lydia nudged his shoulder pointing at the clock on the Sheriff’s entertainment stand. “It’s time, Scott. You ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” Scott said in reply taking her offered hand and giving Kira a peck on the cheek before he and Lydia stepped away.

Most of the people were gathered in the main room by the time they wound their way through to the front where it had been decided he’d stand to speak. Most everyone fell silent upon seeing Scott step up onto the small stool the Sheriff had brought out for the occasion without him even needing to call for silence. He smiled at the crowd instinctively searching out his pack and finding them with ease. Derek, he noticed though, was nowhere to be seen. He gave his mother a small wave and the Sheriff an acknowledging nod before clearing his throat and beginning to talk.

“I want to first thank all of you for coming. It would mean a lot to Stiles to know all of you came out this evening, and I know it means a lot to my pack and I. Many of you met Stiles in the last few years as he and I worked to build our pack up. You were instrumental in teaching us and providing us with the opportunities to grow as a pack. I know Stiles had a lot of respect for all of you and given the chance I feel many of you would have become very close friends.

Right now, though, I’d like to take the opportunity to tell you all a bit more about Stiles. He was my emissary, and he was a damn good one if I do say so myself, and as the alpha of the territory, none of you can argue with me on that.”

Scott paused as the others laughed. Lydia rolled her eyes at him, but hid a smile in her cup as she took a drink. He could see the Sheriff’s small grin even as the man ducked his head.

“But he was much more than that,” Scott said. “He was our confidant, our pep-talk giver, our chatter box, and our teacher. He was my best friend, my brother. I first met Stiles in fourth grade. A bigger boy stole my inhaler and was taunting me on the playground. And out of nowhere comes this scrawny little boy. He demanded the other boy give my inhaler back or he’d kick the boy’s ass. Of course the bully just laughed and we both got a little roughed up that day, but that interaction set the tone for our relationship. Stiles was always loyal and he stuck by my side through thick and thin.

"When I first got bit it was Stiles who figured it out. He helped me learn control of my new status as a creature of the night. Even wrote my name on my new water bowel. He helped me keep up with my schoolwork and navigate the labyrinth known as dating in high school while being a newly turned werewolf. He stayed by my side, fought with me, fought with us, against everything we came up with. He helped keep this pack together after I became an alpha, and he worked very hard with all of you to build this pack into what it is today.

"I don’t know why he choose me on the playground, but not a day goes by where I’m not infinitely glad that he and I got matching black eyes that day. For fifteen years I had a brother and together our two half families made a whole family. Together Stiles and I had a pack, and I am extremely thankful for my pack today,” Scott concluded smiling and raising his glass slightly to his pack members. “So today is a day of thankfulness for what we had and what we still have. And food, because we have a lot of that I’m told, so, uh, eat up.”

Everyone chuckled again, giving a respectful applause. Lydia was dabbing lightly at her eyes as Scott stepped down from the stool. “Very touching,” Lydia said sniffing lightly. “Did you strain your brain coming up with that?”

“Ah, Lydia, your faith in me is continuously refreshing,” he said.

"I know. You ready for rounds now?" she replied. 

Scott sighed. "Not really but I suppose we should get them over with." 

Making rounds to the many people that had come to offer their condolences was exhausting. By the time Scott and Lydia had made it through most of them he felt like his smile was more of a grimace and was certain the other werewolves at least could hear in his heart how much he would rather snarl at them than say another thank you in response to some hollow platitude. The fact that several seemed intent on interrogating him about finding a new emissary was particularly annoying.

Lydia was a welcome presence through the ordeal, a calming and serious authority neatly cutting in whenever Scott grew tired of a conversation or irritated at a tactless remark. It was oddly different yet similar to how these sort of things had gone with Stiles. His best friend had been calming and serious too, but Stiles had never been good at diplomatically undermining things others said like Lydia, who somehow always maintained an air of perfect innocence through her subtle insults. Stiles had always gone for blunt and honest, an approach that probably only worked as well as it did because it was _Stiles_ doing it.

Regardless of the majority of the other packs and emissaries doing little more than grating on Scott’s nerves there were a good many Scott was pleased to see. Each of the emissaries from the cleansing ritual were here, with the exception of Madeline who had been unable to make it but sent along her condolences. Most of them, Scott knew, had been heartbroken at the news. Scott had spent a brief period of time contemplating how the whole incident would have played out if even one of them had remained behind with Stiles before deciding the if what game was never going to solve anything. He was almost certain all of the emissaries could have been there and nothing would have gone differently anyway. Lydia and he each accepted their condolences with a sincere thank you.

It was more than an hour before he and Lydia finally made it back to familiar faces. His mother hugged him again, the Sheriff clapping him on the back and squeezing his neck gently. The pack talked for several minutes about bits of everything, before Scott excused himself unobtrusively. He picked his way across the room, avoiding being pulled into any more conversations as he made his way to the stairs. He gave the rooms a cursory once over again as he moved through them, even though he already knew Derek still wasn’t there.

The upstairs of the house was quiet, having been marked as off limits to most of those in attendance. Scott made his way down the hallway pausing outside of Stiles’ door before entering the room. He hadn’t been back since that failed attempt four weeks ago, having not been able to find the courage to return. Now though, with the muffled thrum of voices beneath his feet and four weeks of mourning to soften the harsh edges of loss he felt ready.

The knob was cool beneath his fingers as he pushed the door open. It creaked faintly as it swung on the hinges, revealing the dusty room beyond cloaked in shadows. Here the scent of Stiles was still strong. It was muted and almost gone throughout the rest of the house, but here it would take much longer than a month to fade.

Scott sucked in a deep breath as he entered, reaching out to flip on the lamp on the desk welcomingly the soft glow of light over the room. The Sheriff had evidently picked up some things. The laundry basket Scott remembered sitting by the dresser was gone and the books and notepads had been gathered off the floor and sorted into piles on the desk according to subject it seemed. Just from a glance Scott could see several of the books Stiles had used in preparing for the cleansing ritual and the research he’d done on the knife according to the information the hunters had provided.

He sat on the bed, still breathing in deeply, surprised slightly at the lack of sorrow he’d been expecting when confronted with the room. Instead there was only a dull throb of heartache stuck somewhere deep in his chest. He let himself fall back staring up at the ceiling and smiling at the faint outline of stars he could still make out on the white paint where the stars had hung for several years. Stiles’ mom had bought those glow in the dark plastic stars for him on his eighth birthday and Stiles’ had been a pain in the ass about putting them up in the patterns of actually star constellations.

_“No, Scott, you’re supposed to be doing Andromeda. That one doesn’t go there.”_

They’d written childish wishes on the back of those stars. Wish upon a star, Stiles had said. So they’d spent a whole afternoon writing as small as they could on the back of plastic stars only to stick them to ceiling and never read them again.

Stiles had taken them down after his mom died, placing them in a blue shoebox that had subsequently gotten buried somewhere under his bed in the years afterwards. In fact, Scott as pretty sure Stiles still had them if his comment that he’d decorate Scott’s new bedroom with them after he’d bought his house had been anything to go by.

_“I’ll even get you a moon, Scotty. Make it wax and wane too, if you want.”_

Scott rolled off the bed gracefully, flattening himself to the floor to peer beneath the bed. It was dark and dusty, obviously hadn’t been cleaned out thoroughly in some time, and Scott shifted several boxes around before finding one he thought might be the one with the stars and drawing it out.

As soon as he flicked the lid off he knew he had the wrong box, but the contents caught his attention anyway. It was half full of photographs. Scott sifted through them carefully, smiling wider as each one revealed another. There was one of Liam and Mason wrestling in the mud. One of Lydia and Kira asleep on the sofa. One of Isaac conked out awkwardly across the overstuffed armchair at Derek’s loft. One of Scott and Kira standing on the porch of their house the day after they’d bought it. One of the Sheriff with his eyes half closed and mouth open as if mid-word. One of Scott with a plastic spoon hanging out of his mouth asleep against Stiles’ jeep door. One of him, Stiles, and Kira crammed together in a photo-booth. Stiles and Kira were making funny faces at the camera while Scott just smiled widely with his eyes closed. One of Stiles and his dad at the station, Stiles grinning widely and the Sheriff fondly. One of Stiles cramming curly fries in his mouth. One of Derek reading curled up on the edge of the sofa at his loft. One of Derek cooking breakfast in nothing but boxers and a ridiculous apron; Stiles had obviously snuck that picture, the whole left side showing nothing but a brown blob Scott suspected was a wall. One of Kira and Scott smiling broadly at each other, each with a sunflower tucked behind their ears.

Scott paused at that one remembering when Stiles had taken it. It wasn’t an older photo like some of the others, had only been taken about two and a half months ago on the pack’s group trip to the botanical gardens. Stiles had taken to organizing group trips every few months to give the pack members away at college a more legitimate reason to come home for a visit other than simple pack nights. The botanical garden trip had been the last one and after he’d snapped the picture Stiles had pulled Scott back to talk while the others had drifted ahead.

_“So you know that countdown Kira has that I didn’t tell you about?” Stiles said. “Yeah, it’s still counting. Pretty sure it’s in the negatives now. Why is that?”_

The picture he’d taken of Scott’s reaction to the question—squinty eyed, slightly glowing of course, and nose scrunched up—was just beneath the other photo.

Scott hadn’t really planned on waiting so long to ask since he’d bought the ring and admitted to Stiles that he had gotten one, but he’d been waiting for the perfect moment and it never seemed to arrive. He’d been meaning to ask for some time now but with Stiles gone now he’d lost his courage. Part of him was angry he’d waited so long in the first place; angry that one of the people he’d looked forward most to sharing the experience with was gone. Stiles would never congratulate him, or throw him an outrageous bachelor party, ( _Strippers, Scotty, you can’t go wrong with strippers!)_ or stand next to him as his best man when Scott married the most wonderful woman, or bring back Scott’s kids covered in mud with a sheepish grin and ice cream. And Scott would never congratulate Stiles, or throw him a bachelor party, or stand next to Stiles as his best man while Stiles married the broodiest werewolf on the planet. They were many of countless missed opportunities.

“I’m going to have to get you a GPS tracker. For all the times you wander off on me.”

Scott jolted, dropping the pictures in shock that he hadn’t even heard Kira approaching. He turned, apology on the tip of his tongue but was struck silent at the soft smile on Kira’s lips and adoration showing on her face. He sighed glancing down at the photo he dropped before picking it up and rising to his feet. Kira stepped into the room and Scott met her halfway flipping the picture around for her to see.

“Do you remember this?” he asked.

Kira nodded tucking her dark hair behind her ear. “Botanical garden trip,” she said. “It was amazing.”

“You know after Stiles took this he asked me a question,” Scott said. “He asked me why I was waiting so long to do something. I didn’t really have an answer then, still don’t, but I think…I think maybe I’ve waited long enough.”

Kira frowned faintly, looking more than a little confused. “Scott, what are you talking about?”

Scott fiddled with the photograph in his hands. “You know there’s a lot of things I never told Stiles. A lot of things I wish we’d talked about or did, but I guess I never really thought he wouldn’t be here one day. He was just a constant and to think of him being gone was absurd,” he said. Kira nodded reaching out to catch Scott’s hands and squeeze them gently. “It’s the same with you,” Scott continued. “I can’t imagine you not being in my life. So, I want to make a plan.”

Kira drew her eyebrows together, parting her lips slightly. “A plan?” she repeated.

“Yes,” Scott said handing her the photograph and drawing her closer with hands on her hips. He kissed her gently and rested his forehead against hers. “Ten years from tonight,” he said softly, “we’ll tell our children how I proposed to you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> Follow on [tumblr](http://www.lapsuscalamiwriting.tumblr.com)


	7. Derek: Stage Five—Acceptance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There really weren’t five stages of grief. Stages implied that they happened in order, that once a person made it through the stage they were done with it, and that once a person reached acceptance they were done grieving. As Stiles and any other person who’d lost someone could tell you, that simply was not the case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, uh, final...final chapter guys. Finally. I'm so terrible. But here it is. Derek in his acceptance. 
> 
> Read and enjoy!

**T-Minus One Year**

Derek stared at the letter in his hands. It wasn’t unexpected. They’d been watching for the letter for weeks now. He’d known it was coming. So it wasn’t a surprise or a shock to see it typed out in print before his eyes. What was a surprise was the feeling of loss welling up inside him.

“You’re allowed to be sad about it, Derek,” Stiles said softly. “He was a dick and a psychopath, but he was your uncle.”

“It’s not that,” Derek protested tearing his gaze from the letter with a frustrated sigh as he tried to explain the complicated web of emotions within him at the moment. He wasn’t sad. Too much had happened and too much distance had settled between them for him to really grieve Peter’s death. It was less a feeling of grief and more a feeling of loneliness. An odd sort of dismay perhaps at realizing that now, for the first time, he really was the last one left. Cora gone. Peter gone. Everyone else…gone. “It’s just, I’m the last one now,” he explained.

Stiles squinted his eyes in that way that meant he was thinking and contemplating saying something he maybe shouldn’t. “Technically, you’re not the last,” he said finally. “We haven’t heard from Malia in a while but I’m sure she’s still running around being terrifying somewhere.”

“She doesn't count,” Derek huffed, feeling only slightly bad about saying so and tossing the letter on the table before stalking over to the window to stare outside. The steady rain that had been coming down for the better part of the morning obscured most of the view, not that he had much of one from his apartment anyway, but the overcast sky and thunder rumbling off in the far distance did a good job at reflecting his mood. Stiles made a contemplative noise behind and Derek sighed before struggling to articulate just _why_ Malia’s supposed continued existence didn’t help the messy swarm of emotions inside him at the moment. “She isn’t…we didn’t even know she existed before…she wasn’t…”

“She wasn’t part of your family. She wasn’t with you from the beginning. She, for lack of a better phrase,” Stiles said coming up behind him and sliding his arms loosely about Derek’s waist, “wasn’t part of the original Hales.”

“Yeah,” Derek sighed leaning back just a tad into the support Stiles offered, thankful but unsurprised Stiles had managed to grasp what he’d been trying to say. “And if I don’t count her…then everyone else is gone and I’m the last one.”

Stiles settled his chin on Derek’s shoulder humming thoughtfully. “You wanna know something my mom told me before she died?” he asked. Derek drew his eyebrows together in surprise just barely stopping himself from twisting to stare at the other man. Stiles didn’t often offer information about his mother or anything relating to her death, and Derek had learned to not turn these rare moments down. He nodded allowing himself to lean further into Stiles as he wrapped his arms more securely around Derek’s waist.

“It was after the doctors had told her she was terminal, after the point of no return I guess you could call it,” Stiles said turning his head slightly so his nose brushed Derek’s cheek. “She brought me outside one day. It was summer and the sun was shining and all the flowers were blooming and the very air smelled of pollen. She sat down with me on the back porch steps, took my hand and said, ‘Sweetie, I know you’re smart so you probably already figured this out but I’m really sick, and I’m not getting better. Someday, not real soon but someday, I won’t be here with you and your dad anymore. But I want you to know that you’ll be okay, because you won’t be alone through this. And all you have to do is hold on to the ones you do have and they’ll get you through.’ My dad and I maybe didn’t do so well heeding her advice right at the start, but we figured it out and it worked in the end.”

“So you’re saying I just hold on to whatever’s left?” Derek asked.

He felt Stiles grin against his neck. “Exactly.”

“What if I haven’t got anyone left?”

Stiles snorted, his chin digging into Derek’s shoulder as he cocked his head. “That’s a ridiculous question because you have lots of people. You may be the last of the Hales, Derek, but you have the pack now,” he said seriously.

Derek twisted in Stiles arms reaching to entwine his fingers with Stiles’ and tug the other man close again so their foreheads were pressed together. “I know,” he breathed. “But hypothetically, what if I didn’t?”

“Well, hypothetically, if you didn’t have the pack,” Stiles said in tone clearly conveying he thought Derek was a dense idiot for even hypothetically proposing such a situation as he raised his hands to frame Derek’s face, “you’d still have me. Because I’m like a nasty foot fungus that doesn't go away, and let’s be honest here, if you have me what more do you need?”

“A good shrink?” Derek returned blandly leaning into Stiles’ touch.

Stiles rolled his eyes dropping his hands to Derek’s chest to push him away. “You’re unbelievable,” he said good-naturedly. “But what would I do without you in my life?”

“Probably get mauled by a wilderbeast somehow.”

Stiles barked out a short laugh, eyes crinkling shut just a bit at the corners. Derek smiled, drinking in the sight of Stiles carefree and happy in the moment. “I think you mean wildebeest,” Stiles said patting Derek’s chest and moving to step away, “and given that they live in Africa I’d say that’s highly doubtful.”

Derek sighed reaching out to snag Stiles’ belt loops and pull him back in again, less than gentle really so Stiles stumbled a bit over his own damn feet somehow. Derek steadied him before he could fall setting him back upright easily. “You’d manage,” Derek breathed.

Stiles stared at Derek expression shifting to a seriousness that often graced his countenance these days. “And what about you?” he whispered almost like he hadn’t meant to ask but wasn’t about to take the question back now. “What would you do without me?”

He wasn’t really joking this time, Derek could tell. He was looking for something, reassurance perhaps, like he always did from time to time because Derek didn’t follow the norm for these sorts of things in a relationship and Stiles had just followed his lead. So they didn’t say the L-word or give each other pet names. They didn’t introduce themselves as boyfriends or even partners or any other word. It was always just ‘this is Stiles’ or ‘this is Derek’ said with a fond smile and nothing more. They didn’t leave things at each other’s houses like spare sets of clothes or toothbrushes, although Derek did let Stiles borrow his clothes all the time. Derek hadn’t even spent all that much time with the Sheriff. At least not in the one-on-one capacity that was generally entailed in the Meeting Of The Parent of his…whatever Stiles was to him.

But the thing was Derek kind of wanted to. He wanted to utter the L-word and call Stiles stupid pet names like dumpling or darling in a faux British accent unexpectedly just to see him blush and stumble over his words. He wanted to meet someone new and say ‘this is Stiles, my mate.’ Or boyfriend, or partner, or companion, or whatever the hell word they agreed upon. He wanted to wake up each morning with Stiles next to him peacefully, not halfway across town in his own bed or swearing frantically and stubbing his toe as he rushed out the door in yesterday’s clothes already late for class or work because his phone died during the night without a charger. And he even wanted to endure those awkward breakfasts and lunches and dinners with the Sheriff as the man subtly probed about his intentions and maybe not so subtly brandished his service weapon while Stiles facepalmed into the table and tried to make himself disappear. Derek kind of wanted all that.

But he didn’t want to go too fast. He didn’t want to screw this, whatever _this_ was, up with Stiles. He wanted to do it right and he wanted to take his time. And maybe he needed to go at a glacial speed just to make sure. Looking at Stiles now, quietly awaiting his answer, he just hoped Stiles would be okay with that. Because maybe in the future (maybe a few months or maybe a year) Derek would be able to tell Stiles he loved him, and call him darling, and introduce him as a mate/boyfriend/partner/whatever, and ask Stiles to move in with him, and invite John out to awkward lunches, but he couldn’t do it right now. Right now, in this moment, all he could do was lean forward and hopefully show Stiles through action rather than words how much he meant to Derek.

“You’re right,” Stiles said breathlessly, breaking off the kiss and grinning softly. “It doesn't matter. Because right now I have you and you have me. You’ll always have me.”

And even if Derek didn’t tell Stiles, at least not outright, he liked the sound of that. 

* * *

**One Month After**

Derek watched the clock, watched the numbers click over ever so slowly. Five forty-seven. The memorial service would be over soon no doubt. The crowd of mourning people dispersing and leaving just the pack gathered around the Sheriff’s house. Maybe it made him a terrible person for not going to Stiles’ funeral or memorial, maybe people would doubt how much he had cared, but Derek couldn’t bring himself to care. Stiles would have understood and that was all that mattered to Derek.

 _Grief is a personal process, Derek_ , he’d said once in the time after Allison’s death. _You of all people should understand that we all grieve in different ways._

Stiles had also once told him that you held on to what you had left to get through the loss of someone; that to figure out how to live without someone in your life you had recognize and cherish everything that still was. And Stiles sure followed that idea. He’d held on to the pack after Allison’s death; held on to Scott and Lydia and Derek. Held on to Isaac even when the other boy was an ocean away. And Stiles had made sure Derek at the very least associated with people after he’d received notice of Cora’s death four years ago; that was when Stiles had first started showing up at random to Derek’s loft with an assortment of take out, board games, and movies at least three times a week. Even after Derek had finally found his tongue, some odd few days after the first appearance, and told Stiles he didn’t need to come over Stiles hadn’t stopped.

Whatever it was they’d had together—familiarity, intimacy, love—it’d grown from that first day Stiles knocked on his loft door with pizza, monopoly, and the entire Star Wars series. Bit by bit it had grown until Derek was staring at him more than the television screen and Stiles was glancing over, eyebrows raising in surprise and lips stretching into a soft smile as he offered Derek more popcorn. It grew until Stiles was trailing his long fingers along Derek’s arms and shoulders letting the touches linger with purposeful glances, and until Derek was crowding Stiles up against the counter in the kitchen one night with the rich smell of spaghetti sauce wafting around them and the taste of it thick on Stiles’ tongue. It grew from casual evenings to stolen nights; grew until Derek was more comfortable dancing awkwardly to Elvis covered in paint with Stiles by his side than he could ever remember being in years.

It was tragic and painful and it _hurt_ to think that their carefully cultivated _something_ — tenderness, affection, passion—would never grow beyond what it was now. That already it had begun to wilt and shrivel into something less intense than it had been. Less intense, less potent, but no less important and no less precious.

He’d hold on to the memories, but he’d also learn to let them go. He’d done it before and he could do it again. He would do it again.

Derek fiddled with his cellphone, absently shifting it from one hand to the other while a soft rainfall blanketed the earth outside. Hazy rays of sun filtered down through the cloud cover, streaming over the glistening roads and blades of glass. It had been raining that day too, all those months ago when Stiles had held him close and told him to hold on to what he had left after the last of his family.

 _You know you’ll have the pack, don’t you?_ Stiles had asked later that night clothed in nothing but boxers in the humid heat of the loft. His skin pressed against Derek’s and the look in his eyes had burned with the truth of his words. _You’re pack now. Now and always._

Derek looked down at his phone thumbing quickly through the contacts and hovering over Scott’s name in hesitation.

_All you have to do is hold on to the ones you do have and they’ll get you through._

He tapped Scott’s name before he could overthink it quickly raising the phone to his ear and listening to it ring. It rang a few more times than it usually did before Scott answered causing an uncomfortable twist in Derek’s stomach but then the Alpha picked up sounding a little breathless.

“Derek? Hey, are you okay?”

The knot in his stomach twisted harder at the implication that Scott would assume something was wrong for Derek to have called him. He winced scrubbing a hand through his hair. God, he could use a shower. “Uh, hey, Scott. Everything’s fine,” he said words failing him and falling short of what he wanted to say. He stared out the window listening to Scott’s steady breathing on the other end of the line.

Scott let the silence persist for a long moment before clearing his throat. Derek could hear him murmuring to another person. Kira, he surmised, after a hushed answer from the woman, then Scott was talking again. “You sure you’re all right, dude? Did you, uh, call for a reason? Not that you need a reason to call, I mean, you’re always welcome. It’s just you usually don’t so I want to make sure you—”

“Scott, it’s fine,” Derek cut him off with a short exhale. “I’m calling because I wanted to, uh, have a pack night?” he finished weakly hoping he didn’t sound nearly as uncertain to Scott as he did to himself. “Here, I mean. At my place. Tonight.” He winced again at his choppy speech and held his breath as Scott said nothing. Derek was just about reaching the conclusion he’d messed something up and Scott would be rejecting his offer when the Alpha replied.

“ _O_ kay,” Scott said dragging the word out and still sounding a little confused but glad all the same. He paused for a moment then continued a bit more enthusiastically, “Kira and I actually have some news we could give everyone anyway, so a pack night would be nice. I’ll let everyone know.”

“Did you finally propose?” Derek asked bluntly, a little surprised at his willingness to expand the conversation. Stiles would be proud. _Look at you!_ he’d crow with a wide grin. _Talking and shit. Having an honest to God conversation. Way to go._ Derek heard Scott sputter on the other end of the phone, almost sounding as if he’d spat his drink out.

“How did you…how…I mean, what…” Scott stammered helplessly.

 _I’m telling you, Derek, everyone else is ball-parking it too low_ , Stiles had said plopping his feet in Derek’s lap as the werewolf sat down on the sagging sofa. He’d grabbed a handful of popcorn from the bowl in Derek’s hands shoving some in his mouth before tossing a piece Derek’s way and grinning when the werewolf caught it in his mouth. _Scott’s gonna take at_ least _six to eight months to pluck up the courage to even begin contemplating_ actually _proposing._

“Well it’s about damn time, Scott. Kira was only waiting for over a year,” he said making his way to the kitchen and yanking the refrigerator door open to pull out a bottle of water. He frowned at the emptiness that greeted him, snagging the last bottle of water and letting the door fall shut.

“I know,” Scott mumbled. Derek could almost hear the blush in his tone. “But if it’s all the same to you, we’d still like to announce it. Even if everyone knows anyway.”

“Of course,” Derek agreed. “Have everyone here by eight. And, uh, maybe bring snacks? I haven’t been to a store lately.”

Scott chuckled lightly. “Okay, we’ll swing by the store and pick up some things for you,” he said and Derek knew by the wording it wouldn’t be only snacks they were bringing.

“Good, and don’t be late,” Derek replied hanging up on Scott’s assurance that they’d be on time. They wouldn’t be. The pack always managed somehow to be collectively late to pack nights. Looking around the loft and sniffing cautiously at his underarms Derek decided that was probably a good thing.

He sighed, slipping his phone back into his pocket before heading to the closet in the corner of the loft where he kept his cleaning supplies. Inside was a jumbled mess of several different sizes of brooms, a few mops, three buckets, a box full of old t-shirts and towels that had once seen better days, and a shelf cluttered with bottles of nearly every cleaning product under the sun.

_“Uh, Stiles what is that?”_

_“It’s a broom,” Stiles had said brandishing it like a weapon. “And this is a bucket. And in the bucket are bottles and rags,” he continued holding the bucket out as if for Derek’s inspection._

_“Yes, I can see that,” Derek replied. “What are you doing with it here?”_

_Stiles rolled his eyes, moving past Derek and to the seldom-used closet in the corner of the loft. “A magical activity called cleaning. See maybe you were raised in a wolf den, but I was raised in a house that approximated this mystical thing known as cleanliness so if I’m going to be spending more time here, things are going to need to change a little bit,” he said shuffling a few things around and beginning to unload the bucket’s contents into the closet._

_Derek balked at the comment, a little thrown by Stiles’ presumption that he would be spending more time at the loft_ with _Derek, but more thrown by the fact that Stiles’ presumption he’d be spending more time here_ with _Derek didn’t spark a wave of irritation but rather a rush of warmth. “I clean,” he retorted defensively when the silence had gone on too long. Stiles snorted head half buried in the closet._

_“Obviously not well enough, sourwolf,” Stile replied, voice muffled and fondly mocking. He poked his head back out of the closet smiling so widely at Derek that the corners of his eyes crinkled. “You didn’t even own a broom.”_

Derek grabbed the large broom, now three years and some odd months old, fingers gliding down the handle worn smooth with use. He kicked the closet door shut turning to face the rest of the open room with a heavy sigh. Stiles never would have let it go so long without a cleaning, but then that was the whole reason the room was a messy as it was, wasn’t it?

 _Oh don’t even look at me, Derek,_ Stiles would have said. _This is your mess. I ain’t cleaning it up._

Derek smiled softly, setting the broom to the floor and just pushing. The stiff bristles scraped across the floor gathering broken glass, wood fragments, dirt, and even food particles, leaving behind nothing but a clean slate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks y'all for reading. I'll probably put the epilogue up tomorrow. Unless I have a change of heart between now and then and decide not to post it after all. Like does the story really need and epilogue with Stiles? Or will that just ruin the sense of the rest of the story? I dunno. 
> 
> At any rate: follow me on tumblr [here](http://lapsuscalamiwriting.tumblr.com) if you'd like!


	8. Stiles & Allison: The Obligatory Sentimental And Somewhat Happy Yet Very Very Short Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There really weren’t five stages of grief. Stages implied that they happened in order, that once a person made it through the stage they were done with it, and that once a person reached acceptance they were done grieving. As Stiles and any other person who’d lost someone could tell you, that simply was not the case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I decided to post it. God it's so cheesy. But I like it.

**One Year After**

“I still can’t believe there actually is a stupid rule that says we can’t talk to Lydia,” Stiles remarked shifting against the pew. Even being dead didn’t make the damn things any more comfortable. The pianist finally started playing music and Stiles resisted the urge to cheer. Being dead hadn’t really helped his patience any either.

Allison snorted beside him leaning forward a bit. Probably to get a better view. “It’s not really a rule. We literally can’t talk to her. She can’t hear us. Ever.”

“Well _that’s_ stupid,” Stiles grumbled even as he immediately smiled upon watching Scott’s expression transform into literal sunshine and rainbows. Derek wore a similar smile standing by Scott’s shoulder, albeit far more reserved than the one Stiles was sporting.

“I know, Stiles,” Allison said with a long-suffering exhalation, running her hand through her dark hair. “It’s not like we haven’t talked about this a hundred times already.”

Now it was Stiles’ turn to sigh, grin fading. “I know. I’m sorry. I just…I made a promise,” he said feeling the familiar sense of guilt creep over him even as he watched Lydia smile widely and tuck a runaway tendril of strawberry blonde hair back behind her ear. She looked even more stunning than usual today in her pale yellow dress with her hair pulled simply back allowing a cascade of curls to fall over her shoulders.

Allison offered him a small grin and clasped his hand reassuringly. “She’ll forgive you. Might chew you out a bit, but even she can’t stay mad forever.”

Stiles chuckled. “Oh I’m counting on it,” he said. He drew his gaze from Lydia, looking first to Kira who was beaming nearly as much as Scott, who was of course still beaming widely like a huge dork, then finally to Derek. Looking at Derek still caused a partial lump to form in his throat, still summoned back all the anger he’d felt at the lost possibilities and a little bit of those tangled emotions he’d been drowning in back at the beginning.

“Hey,” Allison said nudging him and breaking him out of his reverie. “He’ll forgive you too.”

Stiles smiled softly and shook his head. “He already has,” he said, a warm feeling spreading inside him to soothe the hurts as he watched Derek fondly watching Scott and Kira. Stiles and Allison stood with the rest of those in attendance as prompted even though no one else would know otherwise. Being dead did have _some_ perks.

“We are gathered here today,” the man at the front of the room began, “to celebrate one of life's greatest moments, to give recognition to the worth and beauty of love, and to add our best wishes to the words which shall unite Kira Yukimura and Scott McCall in marriage. Let this be a day of happiness, gratitude, possibility, and celebration…”

“For what it’s worth,” Allison said softly even though they would disturb no one by speaking. “I’m actually kind of glad you’re here with me.”

Stiles gave her hand a comforting squeeze. “You know, I told Lydia you’d be waiting for us.”

“I know,” Allison replied rolling her eyes but smiling all the same. “I was there, remember? I’m always there when she visits.”

Stiles nodded looking over his pack once more. Lydia in all her glory as a Maid of Honor, Kira radiating endless joy and beauty, Scott smiling and exuding pure sunshine, Derek looking handsome as ever and content, Isaac still looking like an overgrown happy puppy, and Liam grinning broadly at his alpha. Mason, Parrish, and even Chris, were in the pews along with Melissa and his dad—both smiling widely, the Sheriff’s arm around Melissa’s shoulders. Stiles was happy for him. He was happy for all of them.

“They’ll catch up,” Stiles said. “Eventually.”

“But not _too_ soon,” Allison added.

“Kira and Scott would like to thank their parents and family for all the love and care they received growing up, and to thank all of you who are here to share in their joy today. They would also like to honor in memorium those who couldn’t attend, namely Stiles Stilinski and Allison Argent. These loved ones will live on in their minds and hearts today and always…”

“Yeah,” Stiles said, “not too soon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> As always follow me on [tumblr](http://www.lapsuscalamiwriting.tumblr.com) if you'd like
> 
> **Edit:** And if you want a little something extra for the story be sure to check out the comments below!


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